Soo Lin
by Foxy-Badger
Summary: John hears a gunshot and rushes back to Soo-Lin. He feels guilty for her death which Sherlock finds ridiculous and boring. 'Missing scene' from The Blind Banker.


**Title:** Soo Lin  
><strong>Author:<strong> Moonshape  
><strong>Fandom:<strong> BBC Sherlock  
><strong>Pairing:<strong> Sherlock/John  
><strong>Genre:<strong> angst, slash (M/M), drama, hurt/comfort  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG  
><strong>Word count: <strong>760**  
>Summary:<strong> John hears a gunshot and rushes back to Soo-Lin. He feels guilty for her death which Sherlock finds ridiculous.  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> Story is mine. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson belong to Sir Conan Doyle. Contains paragraphs used from BBC Sherlock belongs to the BBC. No profit made. Just for fun.

* * *

><p>A bang echoes through the building and John turns back to where he had come from.<p>

'Oh my God—,' he breathes and runs back.

She is lying awkwardly on the table, her back bent in an odd shape and a whimper escapes his lips.

'No—

His hand trembles as he reaches to feel her pulse. There is none.

He picks her up and gently lays her on the floor, the black rose the murderer had put in her hand falling to the ground.

His hand still trembles as he closes her eyes and wipes a strand of hair out of her face. She looks peaceful for some reason; although he knew she must have been terrified.

And it was his fault. He had told her to hide and he had left her to go after Sherlock. Why had he bothered anyway? Sherlock was perfectly fine to save his own skin – he had seen that half a dozen times before. Why had he left her?

'Oh God,' he says as he sits on one knee beside her, bringing his hands to his hair. He doesn't know why he weeps over a girl he doesn't know – but he's doing it.

Next to him, a gloved hand picks up the rose the killer had folded. As it lies on his palm, Sherlock caresses it with his thumb. He puts the rose in his pocket and steps closer.

'John – get up; it's not your fault.'

'I left her – I – left her, Sherlock.'

'He could have shot you too.'

'I don't care,' John says and furiously shakes his head. 'I don't care – I should have stayed with her.'

'Her death was inevitable – if we had moved her to a safe house he would have gotten to her, you know that.'

'This is – too much, Sherlock,' John stammers. 'This is too much.'

'You've seen plenty of dead people, John,' Sherlock reminds him.

'That doesn't make it normal!' John shouts and jumps up with rage filling his veins. He never understands how a man, even a man with Sherlock Holmes' intelligence, would react like this to the murder of a young woman. But, John always had to remind himself – that there was no one else like Sherlock Holmes.

John sat in his chair by the fireplace, rubbing his temple and nursing a cup of tea to his lips.

'Oh come on, John – it's not still bothering you, is it?'

'Oh for God's sake, Sherlock!' John bursts out and crashes his cup down on the coffee table. 'Can you be any less inhuman, please?'

'I'm not inhuman, John – I just don't understand why you would grieve over a stranger,' Sherlock speaks as he lays his violin down.

'Because she was human!' John looks up at his flat mate, his eyes wide with disbelief. 'She was scared! I left her!'

He had expected Sherlock would find another excuse why he shouldn't be sad for other people but the man didn't speak. Instead he smiled at him.

'John, John, John,' he said after his short silence and strolled past his chair. 'Will you ever stop caring?'

'Caring – what?' John looks over his shoulder as Sherlock passed him.

'That's why you became a doctor, didn't you? You care so much you wish to embrace the world in your arms and just be there for others.'

'What?'

'It's very touching John, but do keep in mind the world is _not_ a nice place to live in.'

'I don't under—,'

'You don't have to, John,' Sherlock sighs and John feels his hand lightly touch his shoulder. 'Please John, don't _ever_ try to understand it.'

'What are you on about?'

He notices how Sherlock moves and his voice is breathing in his ear as he speaks: 'It makes you who you are – my John; the one who cares too much.'

And Sherlock's soft lips touch his temple so lightly it almost tickles and a thick lump in John's throat prevent him from swallowing.

His lips are parched and they part. He wants to reach up for Sherlock's hand but before he can, Sherlock pulls his hand back. John looks around and watches how Sherlock walks through the kitchen, where he sits down behind his microscope and sinks into a deep ponder about the object that lies on the table.

John turns his head, biting his lips and staring at the fire. After a minute he gets up and moves over to the table, sitting down behind his laptop and does the only thing he can do right now: write his blog.


End file.
